Welcome to Other Earth
by Amory Sparkly Bat
Summary: In a spirit realm, con-man & son-of-a-demon Neal Caffrey is forced to flee when he discovers a plot to take over the physical realm of Other Earth. But when Brother Peter Burke of the Holy Bureau chases after the convict to another reality, he finds more than he bargained for-including Agent Burke of the FBI, a version of him who happens to be in love with the demon he must catch.
1. Prologue: Heads Up!

**Title:** Welcome to Other Earth  
**Author:** Amory Puck (**pucktheplayer on Livejournal**)  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Warnings:** h/c, angst, slash, explicit sex  
**Pairings: **Peter/Neal, Peter/El  
**Word Count:** 1,505 (this chapter)/?

**Summary: **In a spiritual realm parallel to the world we know, con-man and son-of-a-demon Neal Caffrey is forced to flee his prison cell when he discovers a Satanic plot to take over the physical realm of Other Earth. But when Brother Peter Burke of the Holy Bureau of Investigation chases after the escaped convict into the very realm Hell plans to conquer, he finds a lot more than he bargained for, including Agent Peter Burke of the FBI, another version of him who just so happens to be in love with the demon Brother Peter is there to catch.

**Author's Notes:** Written as an attempt to do the 25-in-1 Achievement on my H/C Bingo Card for **hc_bingo** on Livejournal, which means using all 25 prompts in one story. The prompts covered in this chapter are **nausea** and **death**. See my Round Four Bingo Card on my pucktheplayer LJ for a full list of the prompts I am trying to cover in this story. :) Please leave feedback letting me know if there is actually any interest in reading a White Collar story with fantasy elements! It will be a serious plot, but with lots of humorous, nutty moments, as you can probably tell just from this chapter, LOL.

o o o

**Prologue: Heads Up!**

o o o

"This way!" Peter shouted as feet pounded in the darkness. "They went this way!"

"No!" a loud voice shouted back, a sudden hand on the shoulder almost making Peter tumble to the ground. "They went this way!"

"How can you tell where they went?" Peter demanded, doing his best to knock a hand he couldn't see off of him. "It's pitch black in here!"

"I can sense it! Just listen to me!"

Peter snorted loudly and yanked back his jacket, caressing the hilt of his gun. He'd had just about enough of this fellow. "Listen to you? Why the hell should I listen to some freaky priest who dropped out of nowhere waving a Bible like a magic wand? I'm a Federal agent! I run after guys in the dark for a living!"

"Oh, and you think I've never spent anytime in the dark?" the man returned, a furious note to his voice. "I am a member of the priesthood! It's practically a papal mandate that we spend half our days in the dark! Why do you think the Holy Roman Church is stuck in the Middle Ages?!"

"Will you both shut up already?" El's voice came from further down the hall. "She's got Neal! We have to find them before she kills him!"

"What we need is some damn light," Peter muttered, flattening himself against the wall as he fumbled to find a switch. "Hold on, I think I found it…"

The lights flashed on, bright enough to blind, and Peter squinted against the glare as he took in their surrounding. The hallway to the left was a dead end—exactly the direction old priestly pants had been pointing them. Peter smirked. "I told you he wasn't that way!"

"Will you both shut up?" El snapped as she whirled around to face them, her voice high and angry. "You two are such men! How about you wait until after Neal is safe, then you can pull it out and measure then, okay? Neal has to be in one of these offices. There's nowhere else she could have taken him. Let's split up and search."

"I don't think that's going to be necessary, m'am," Father fuckwit said in a dark tone, pointing toward the end of the hall.

Peter's breath caught as his eyes fell on a dark pool seeping out from under the door. No. No, no, no. It couldn't be. No way. It was her blood. It had to be. Neal had taken her down with a letter opener or something. Except… except Peter had shot her with his gun and hadn't seen any blood. Okay, so not her blood… Then it wasn't blood at all! That had to be it. A puddle of split ink, that's all it was. And if there was a deep reddish-brown tone to it, well, maybe the office belonged to a math teacher. Lots of red ink needed there, right?

Peter choked, blinking rapidly as his eyes began to sting.

"No," El whispered, her face as pale as a sheet. "No…"

Swallowing hard, Peter pulled his gun slowly and began to slink down the hallway toward the door, pressing his back against the wall as he went. He reached out slowly, then turned the handle and pushed in one quick moment, ducking back out of the way in case she was to emerge.

The room was silent, however, no heavy, ghostly breathing or roars of fury. The blood was seeping faster now, touching the tips of his shoes. Because it was definitely blood. Peter didn't need to kneel down and look to know that. There was too much of it—the smell of blood perfumed the air.

"I think we're clear," Peter whispered.

"Be careful," El said in a tight voice as Peter slipped into the room.

It was dark inside, though not as dark as in the hall, the moon shining in through the big windows lining the far wall. Certainly not dark enough to hide the sinister splatters painting every surface, or the enormous pool of blood at the center of the room.

Peter hit the lights, then began to gag as sickness rose up in his gut and he had to choke it back down. He'd thought he was ready, but the moonlight had, indeed, curtained the true horror of the scene. The splatters were a sinister mix of reds, brilliant against the white carpet and walls. Striking reds, the color of Valentine roses; bright reds, like poppies in a field; soft reds, stolen from a watercolor sunset; darkest reds, so deep you could call them black, like rotting wood in a dim forest. There was so much blood that it almost seemed deliberate, as if someone had ripped a body apart then spun it around in a circle until the juice of life ran down everything, trickling down walls and seeping into carpet.

In the middle of the room stood an office chair, shining like a crimson painted throne. Blood still dripped down it into the huge pool below, making it obvious that was where Neal had died.

Behind the chair blood was smeared in a trail toward a broken window across the room, as if something heavy had been drug through the puddle and hurled out the window. Something heavy like Neal's body.

Peter couldn't stop himself, tears running down his cheeks as he rushed to the window, shading his eyes from the nightlights of Manhattan as he searched the ground below for his friend. Four years. Four *years* they had worked together and Peter had never told him. He'd been too scared. Scared of what would happen, scared of what it meant… What a coward he'd been, waiting and waiting, as if he had all the time in the universe. Now that time was up, it was gone forever, and Peter had never told Neal that he loved him.

"Looks like a beheading," came a brisk voice, firmly cementing himself the title of 'creepy priest.' Peter gritted his teeth as a hand came down on his shoulder, turning to glare at the other man.

"This is all your fault!" Peter shouted, shoving the hand away. "Before you showed up, we were fine! Everything was fine! Then you drop in and now he's dead!"

"You won't find the body down there," the man said as he peered over the edge, ignoring Peter completely. "She took it with her." He frowned, a puzzled look crossing his face as he pulled back. "The question is: why?"

Oh, *that* was the question, was it? Peter balled up his fist, just about ready to punch this guy a new one, when a choked sob made him pause.

"I don't know why she took it," came El's soft, broken voice, and Peter let his fists fall back to his sides, all the fight running out of him at the sound. His wife stood behind the broad mahogany desk placed in the corner, moonlight and neon signs fighting for a place in her hair as she stood, in front of one of the giant windows, arms crossed protectively over her chest. "But she didn't get the head." A tear spilled down her cheek, light from the window making it shimmer like liquid silver. "Oh, Neal…"

Peter sniffed and wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand as he moved toward her. His stomach was still turning madly, and he was pretty sure that looking at his friend's severed head wasn't going to do much for his nausea, but he had to see. He had to see those brilliant blue eyes one last time.

El made a soft sound as Peter wrapped his arms around her, turning and burying her face in his chest. Peter swallowed hard, focusing on controlling his gag reflex, then forced himself to look down.

Oh, God. Peter had to cover his mouth this time to keep from vomiting in his honey's hair, though under the circumstances she probably wouldn't have held it against him.

Neal's head had somehow managed to find it's way into an open drawer of the desk. Had she put it there after she killed him? Peter couldn't come up with any reason why she would take the body and leave his head in a drawer to be found, but then she wasn't exactly sane, was she?

Tears began to flow in earnest as he looked down at the man he loved, hair matted with blood, severed spine peeking out from the meat that used to be his neck.

Gone. Neal was gone, and he'd never, ever told him. What a fool he was! If he just had another chance, one more chance! God, Peter would give anything to have one more chance to tell him—

"Oh man, my head is *killing* me!"

Peter let out a scream worthy of an eighty year old woman getting hit by an ice cream truck as Neal's eyes popped open and a smile spread across his face.

"Hey, Peter! How's it going?"

That was it. The point had been reached. Peter shoved his wife away and bent over, vomiting all over the floor.


	2. Ch 1: The Golden Worm(hole)

**Title:** Welcome to Other Earth  
**Author:** Amory Puck (**pucktheplayer**)  
**Rating:** NC-17  
**Warnings:** h/c, angst, slash, explicit sex  
**Pairings: **Peter/Neal, Peter/El

**Author's Notes:** Written as an attempt to do the 25-in-1 Achievement on my H/C Bingo Card for **hc_bingo on LJ**, which means using all 25 prompts in one story. The prompts covered in this chapter are **crucifixion, poltergeist, **and **broken bones**. See my Round Four Bingo Card on my pucktheplayer livejournal for a full list of the prompts I am trying to cover in this story. :)

_Please leave feedback letting me know if there is actually any interest in reading a White Collar story with fantasy elements! It will be a serious plot, but with lots of humorous, nutty moments!_

o o o

**Chapter 1: The Golden Worm(hole)**

o o o

**_24 HOURS EARLIER_**  
_New Rome, The Year of Our Lord the Great I Am, 4807 AE (After Eden)_

_*She is coming…*_

Neal shuddered as the words whipped through his prison cell like a cold wind, slapping against his flesh and turning the drops of sweat trickling down the back of his neck into little beads of ice.

_*She is coming…*_

The demon blinked rapidly, the frost on his lashes making it difficult to see the floor in front of him. It didn't matter, though. He could feel the etching in the concrete with the frozen pads of his fingers, and he knew the Sign of the Spawn by heart.

Considering that it was a long line with a bunch of stick legs and a crude happy face at one end, it would be pretty sad if he didn't.

_*She is coming…*_

It was cold, so cold, but it had to be, or the prison sensors would detect the heat residue from his ritual. And if his ritual failed, an entire realm might very well follow.

_*She is coming…*_

"Yeah, I get it," Neal snapped, glaring up at Mozzie, who was hovering in a corner, looking pretty damn smug for a guy who was completely transparent. "I get it! She is coming! I *know* she's coming! That's why I'm *doing* this! Will you stop being so damn dramatic? I need you to chill the place down, not act like the Ghost of Christmas Past on a bad acid trip."

_*Excuse me?* _Mozzie retorted, the cold words making Neal's hair freeze in place. _*You know very well that poltergeists do not associate with do-gooder ghosts! I am doing you a favor here, the least you can do is treat me with some respect! Besides, do-gooders are warm-blooded! They make people's blood boil. Only poltergeists make you shiver!*_

Neal rolled his eyes. "I am aware of that, Moz. I wasn't being literal. Everybody knows you're not a do-gooder. Do-gooders don't make men's ball freeze off."

Mozzie sniffed. _*Whatever. I'll do as I please, thank you very much. I spent an entire week stuck between a bag of frozen vegetables and an ice pack that I'm pretty sure has seen places I don't even want to *think* about, and now you're bitching at me? I don't think so!*_ The cell's tiny window cracked as Mozzie cleared his throat, voice dropping back into a low, spooky tone. _*She is coooooming… She is cooooming…*_

Neal shook his head, holding back a laugh as he returned his attention to the ritual at hand. His toilet was a pile of broken shards on the opposite side of the cell, leaving the floor space he'd ripped it from enticingly bare. Well, apart from the big hole with the pipes sticking out. But the point was, it was clean concrete, no runes to be found.

He hadn't really wanted to yank out his pot—a demon never knew when he might need to take a leak—but every other inch of surface was carefully printed with thousands and thousands of tiny runes, magical wards of control and restraint hand painted by a member of the Honored Sisterhood of Holy Cleansing. Even his mattress had runes stitched into it, as if he could pull off a ritual on cotton. You needed a good polyester blend, or at least some mixing of wool and angora, to work demonic magic. The spot under the pot was the only place in the cell Neal could pull off an unholy ritual.

If he needed to pee, he could always piss on his mattress. See how the Sisterhood liked cleaning up *that.* Fucking god-gifted janitorial services. Always using products that burned his unholy flesh.

Neal used his toothbrush to scratch one more little stick onto the winding creature carved into his floor. There. The Sign of the Spawn was drawn. Now all he needed was the sacrifice.

Without thinking, Neal started to stretch out his wings then stopped with a grunt of pain, gritting his teeth against the stabbing agony. Even though his wings were invisible to humans and, in a literal sense, didn't exist in the realm of Spirit Earth at all, they still hurt like hell.

As his punishment for using soul-bending techniques to con humans into doing his bidding, the Holy Court had placed him in Inter-Realm Supermax, the only prison in the universes that existed both on Spirit Earth and in Hell. His angel's wings and other supernatural gifts were in a cell in Hell, while his physical body was in the same cell on Spirit Earth. The cells were built literally on top of each other, taking up the exact same space, but existing in different realities. He had received a lifetime prison sentence on Spirit Earth, plus a four year sentence of wingafixion in Hell—his wings had been nailed to a blessed cross, the lower section nailed into his spine, and he had been forced to carry the scorching weight on his back day and night.

Three and a half years, Neal had suffered the agony, looking forward to the bright day when his spiritual punishment would be lifted and he could enjoy a relatively comfortable mortal life in his cell on Spirit Earth before passing into Hell to live with his brothers and sisters, at least until the day he chose to be reborn as mortal again. It had been so close, a bright light on the horizon, and now it was gone, along with Neal's wings.

There had been no way he could use demonic spell craft with a holy cross nailed to his back. This ritual, however, was his only hope, and he'd had no choice but to forcibly rip his wings to shreds to free himself of the holy burden. Whether his precious wings could ever be healed, Neal didn't know. The bones within were broken, snapped liked pieces of wood, and the golden feathers had turned black as the cross fought its removal by erupting in flames. The flesh hung in strips, and the glittering blood of the angels dripped down them.

For once, Neal was glad that it was so difficult to see his wings from Spirit Earth. In fact, as long as he didn't concentrate one them, they were as invisible to him as they were to humans. Too bad he could still feel them just fine.

Neal swallowed deeply, doing his best to shove down the deep pain he felt when he imagined never being able to fly again, to never again feel the wind on his face as leapt from the Eternal Cliffs, free falling for miles before spreading his wings and soaring across the fiery lakes. Nothing in the universe could compare, and now it was gone, his wings left in tatters.

The tear froze on his lashes before it could make it to his cheek.

Neal took a steadying breath as he reached behind himself, slipping his hand into his bright orange scrubs and using his fingers to pry apart his ass. He made a grunting noise as he began to wriggle them up his hole, searching for his most well-kept secret. He had dealt with many years of "squat and cough" in order to keep his prize. The guards couldn't see it since it physically existed in Hell, not on Spirit Earth, just like the things formerly known as his wings. But, also like his wings, Neal could use it in either reality. Unfortunately, the fact that he could touch it in any reality meant he'd *definitely* felt it shoved up there up all those years. Twas the penalty for existing both on Earth and in Hell.

The metal felt warm to the touch, as was to be expected considering it had been up his butt, and Neal stroked its silver length, a small smile playing on his lips as he took in the implement of his salvation.

It was the most beautiful bendy straw in all the worlds.

_*This is a really bad idea,_* Mozzie said, the cold wind whipping worriedly about. _*No one's ever tried this before, Neal. You have no idea what will happen! What if it doesn't work? What if you end up sucking yourself to death? Or caught in a paradox? You can't be human because you're half-human and you can't be half-human because you're human and you can't be demon because demons don't exist but you have to be a demon because you're a fucking demon! That sounds pretty Dr. Who to me. Next thing we now, the Daleks are going to be on our damn doorstep! Exterminate! Exterminate! Poltergeists are inferior! Exterminate! You know poltergeists hate exterminators, Neal! We *are* considered a form of household pest!*_

"Oh, chill out, Mozzie," Neal said, flashing him a grin that looked a lot braver than he felt. "Pun totally intended. I have no choice. You know I have no choice! It's this or—"

A loud crashing sound cut off whatever 'or' he'd been about to make up, and a furious roar, like a hundred lions all in chorus, rang out. The lights in the hallway flickered several times before going off, leaving behind an unnatural darkness, a darkness too impenetrable to be real. Oh, Devil… She was flooding the halls with ether. Thick, terrible dark matter. Neal had seen demons fall into ether before, sinking into its depths as it swallowed them down like evil quicksand, leaving them to spend eternity choking on a substance they couldn't even touch. The only way to escape ether was to be pulled out, at the risk of your rescuer being sucked in themselves. Needless to say, no in Hell ever bothered.

Neal shivered, and it wasn't from the cold.

_*I suppose it's now redundant to say 'she is coming'?* _Mozzie said, his psychic voice a little higher than usual. _*You know, since she's obviously here?*_

"I have to do this now, Moz," Neal said roughly, jamming the end of his straw into a silvery vein and directing the other end toward the sign etched into the floor. "No sacrifice, no gain, right?"

There was another loud crash, followed by what sounded like metal screeching.

_*Hurry, Neal!*_ Mozzie shouted, flitting nervously around the top of the cell. _*There's not much time left! Do it now!*_

"Come on," Neal whispered in a low voice, doing his best to block out the terrible sounds coming from the blackness beyond. "Soul of righteous, turned to wrong," he chanted softly, "soul of mortal, feed the Spawn." A silver drop gathered at the end of the straw. "Come on," Neal whispered again, breath quickening at the sight. "Just one little drop… I may be a demon, but I've got human in there, too. Just one drop…"

The ether moaned like a beast in heat and the ground began to shudder. Neal's brow furrowed as a long crack appeared on the floor. What the hell? Why was she—oh. Oh! The runes! She was trying to destroy the runes! Apparently the signs meant to keep him in were keeping her out.

"Praise the false gods," Neal murmured, turning his attention back to the straw. The drop was wobbling now, fat and heavy on the end. Just a little more…

His cell door slammed open with a loud clang and Neal let out a whimper as her terrible figure hovered in the doorway, her once beautiful face wrenched into something unrecognizable.

"Devil save me," he whispered, forcing himself to turn away. He was afraid that if he looked at her too long, he might go mad.

Neal gritted his teeth hard enough that he heard a crack, staring down at the end of his straw like it was the last hope in the world. Which, for him, it kind of was.

Come on… One drop, all he needed was one drop and then—

A light, brighter than anything Neal had ever seen, brighter than the sun—perhaps as bright as the Forbidden Name Himself—sliced through the room. Neal let a scream as his eyes began to burn, covering them with his hands as a wind stronger than the wings of a thousand angels in flight wrapped around him, pulling him, tugging him, dragging him away like the hand of a god.

Oh yeah. He was *so* out of there!

Good bye spirit realm, hello Other Earth!

o o o

_New York City, Year 2013 AD (Anno Domini)_

"So, what do you think?" Peter questioned, sipping at the cheap muck the Feds called coffee. Neal seriously did not know how the man stood it. DaVinci knew, Neal couldn't stand it. The donuts weren't too bad, though. Kind of stale, like maybe they were a few days old, but tasty. He should know. He'd had about three. Maybe four. Okay, five. But he'd had a light breakfast. Just some eggs on toast, a couple pancakes, and forty seven Hershey's kisses. Neal was still hungry, though. He was hungry a lot these days. He blamed it on the prison system. They'd practically starved him in there, and starvation isn't something a man forgets. Or so the guys on the infomercials about starving children in Africa said, anyway.

"Well?" Peter said, and Neal started, biting his lip as he glanced down at the photos in his hands. A gold and ruby bug. What would they think to steal next?

"Uh, well, I know that the museum says it's Byzantinian, but the markings look Hebrew to me. Not all of them, but some of them. I'm no expert at ancient Hebrew, but I don't think they had markings for vowels and if the translation of the writing is accurate, some of those marks have to be vowels. There's no Greek or Latin on it at all, though. It really doesn't seem all that Byzantine Empire to me."

"So you think it's a fake?" Peter asked, sipping more of his muck.

"I didn't say that," Neal replied, shaking his head. "I don't think it's fake at all. I just don't think it's Byzantinian. They're placing it in that period because of the references to Christianity, but I think it's much older than late-Rome, early Middle Ages." Neal paused, brow furrowing as he stared at the picture, a strange feeling of deja vu washing over him "Yeah, definitely older," he said slowly, the words feeling sort of thick on his tongue. "Much, much older. So much older. Possibly older than this earth…"

"Older than this earth?" Jones cut in with a chuckle. "What, it's from space? Looks more like a Toys R Us original to me. Caesar the Centipede, available in three choices of precious metals!"

Neal blinked, then shook his head to clear it. "No… I… I don't know why I said that. I do think it's older than the Byzantine, though. Maybe even pre-Israel." He held up a hand. "I know, I know, way too early for the references to Christ. But the Jews have been searching for a Messiah since the beginning of time. We don't know who translated this thing. It might not say 'Christo.' It might say 'mosiach,' messiah, the anointed one. It wasn't like anyone has had a lot of time to study it. Garrett only pulled it out of the rubble a few weeks ago. They probably got a grad student who needed a few bucks to translate the paid some fat cat auctioneer to authenticate it. But I really do think it's older than the exhibit is claiming."

"Which would make it worth more," Jones said, tipping his chair back as he studied his own set of photos. "You think somebody saw it, realized its real worth, and decided to grab it before Garrett realized what he had and put it under tighter security?"

"Security was as tight as it could get," Neal said, shaking his head. "Even if it was post-Roman, the eyes on the thing are made of pigeon blood rubies bigger than my thumb. Rubies that size are worth more than diamonds, simply because rubies almost never make it to that size. In fact, I've never heard of any that big. Rubies too soft a rock, they break apart into smaller pieces. Plus the thing is made of solid gold. It's worth a hundred million, maybe more, just for those rubies. Even if this thing was pre-Roman, from some ancient society or something, the price wouldn't make that huge a leap. People wouldn't trust the idea that an artifact from an undiscovered society just happened to find its way to a construction sight in Manhattan. You have to admit, the whole thing seems a little fishy. Not worth the risk to a buyer. Worth stealing though, if only for those rubies. The statue itself could be melted down and the thief would still make a bundle off the rocks."

"So you don't think its origins have anything to do with the theft?" Peter asked, glancing down at his own file.

Neal shrugged. "Not unless it's a fake and Garrett is staging a grab job to cash in on the insurance before somebody with better credentials debunks his guy's authentication. A pretty complex scheme, though, when the statue in pieces is worth as much as the statue as a whole. Though I guess he could cash in on insurance and sell it on the black market. I say we take the photos over to Professor Lebowitz at NYU. Religious studies, with an emphasis in archaeology since ancient Judea is his thing. These markings really do look Hebrew to me. It's just a gut feeling, but I think there's more to this statue than meets the eye."

"There must be," Diana said darkly as she walked into the room, a serious look on her face. "Something that's important enough to kill over, because Donald Garrett is dead."

"What?" Peter said, sitting up straight in his chair, coffee mug landing on the table with a bang. "How can he be dead? I talked to him last night!"

"Well, they found him this morning," Diana said, tossing a folder onto the table. "And you'll never guess how he died. I mean, seriously, you'll never guess."

"Was he crucified?" Jones said with a smirk, making Peter roll his eyes.

Diana blinked, then let out a huff of laughter. "Actually, yes. Yes, he was."

Neal frowned. "What?"

"He was crucified," Diana said with a shrug. "In his own living room."

"You're kidding me," Jones said, looking disturbed. "He wasn't seriously crucified? You're messing with me."

"Not at all," Diana said, dropping down into one of the chairs. "After seeing those pictures, I'm in no mood for joking around. The guy was crucified. Good job putting yourself at the top of the suspect list there, Clinton."

"Shut up," Jones muttered, rubbing his forehead. "That's crazy. Who crucifies someone? *How* do you crucify someone?"

"I imagine it involves nails and wood," Peter said somewhat distractedly as he leafed through the file with a slightly disgusted look on his face.

"Well, there was no cross involved," Diana said. "They nailed him to the wall. Used screwdrivers instead of actual nails, though. Apparently your local hardware store doesn't stock the tools of the crucifixion trade. They pierced a vein in the left wrist when they did it. He bled out, lucky dog. Otherwise he'd have spend hours slowly choking to death."

"It's not a pretty death," Neal said quietly, reaching down and grabbing at one of the donuts stacked in front of him, ripping a piece off and stuffing it in his mouth. "The Romans used it as a fear tactic to keep people in line," he said around the food. "They carried portable crosses wherever they went."

"Well, our thief is definitely capable of more than we thought," Peter said, setting down the file with a grimace. "Assuming, of course, that the killer and the crook are the same person. I don't see the logic behind stealing someone's artifact from a museum one night, then going to the person's home and crucifying him the next. For all we know, someone else came looking for it and, when they found out it was stolen, they decided to make Garrett pay. I mean, we've kept the theft out of the news."

"Or maybe the statue really was a fake, and when the thief found out he decided to off the guy who lied to him?" Neal put in. "I mean, it's a crazy idea, but whoever did this was obviously crazy. Sane people don't crucify guys with screwdrivers."

"It would be a pretty big coincidence that the theft and the murder aren't related," Peter conceded. "I mean, this was no blow to the head. They nailed him to the damn wall. There was thought put into that. Maybe this is what they planned from the beginning."

"Good point," Neal said, reluctantly taking the file as it was passed to him. He grimaced as Garrett stared up at him with blank, dead eyes, hanging off the wall like some perverted marionette. Neal handed the file to Diana and picked up the photo of the statue again.

They'd been calling it a bug, but in a way the thing looked more like a snake. Its body was long and lean like a snake's, but snakes didn't have hundreds of insect-like legs sprouting from their bodies. The enormous rubies definitely made it look bug-eyed, but the antennae curled around in a way that reminded Neal of ram's horns. It was certainly weird, almost grotesque looking, and should have been off-putting to look at. However, there was a certain pull to it, like it was right there in front of him, buzzing, buzzing, and all he had to do was reach out into the photo and touch it—

"Neal?"

Neal started, looking up at Peter. "What? Sorry, I didn't hear you."

"I said, whoever killed Garrett was obviously trying to make some kind of statement. Do you think it could be related to the statue?"

"Well, there is the reference to Christianity in the writing on the back. Or to the messiah, at least. Whether it's truly Byzantine Empire or actually something older, there's certainly more relation between it and crucifixion than, say, Monet's 'Water Lillies.' Crucifixion is an ancient art, and so it this. Like you said, it would be a damn big coincidence if they didn't have something to do with one another."

"You know, we're talking about it like it's just been discovered, but maybe it's more than that," Diana said thoughtfully. "A lot of cults take on ancient symbols. Maybe there are some religious nut jobs out there who think of it as their god or something. I mean, they found the thing digging up an old foundation in the middle of the City, and it is definitely not Native American. Obviously someone brought it here, at one time or another. Somebody out there might be angry that Garrett was calling it his own at all. I mean, it's just a theory, but it would explain why our thief decided to nail Garrett to a wall and why none of Neal's contacts on the black market have heard anything about it."

Peter nodded. "That makes sense. A good theory. We should look into it. We can't assume that our thief and our murderer are the same person, but we can't assume that they're different people, either. We have to keep an open mind about this—and be careful about it, too. You said it, Neal. Whoever killed Garrett, they aren't sane. We need to find out more about this golden worm thing. Neal, who was that professor you said we should see?"

"Professor Lebowitz," Neal answered. "Well, Rabbi, actually."

"Okay," Peter said, standing up and gathering his papers together. "Neal and I will go talk to the professor. Diana, get me all the information you can on Donald Garrett. I want to know everyone whose talked to him since his people found the worm at the construction site. Jones, you dig up what you can on the more current history of the worm. See if anyone's talking about a golden centipede online, that sort of thing. Whatever's going on, that worm is at the center of it and I want to know why."

"You got it, Boss."

"I'm on it."

Neal stood up to follow Peter, then paused as his phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, raising an eyebrow as the Caller ID flashed 'unknown'. Neal swiped the screen, frowning down at the text message that appeared.

'She is coming.'

Throat suddenly dry, Neal let the phone fall from his hand. It landed on the conference table with a thud and Peter glanced over at him, a quizzical look on his face.

"You okay, buddy? You look pale."

"Hm? Oh, I'm fine," Neal said, slowly picking up the phone and slipping it back into his pocket. He took a deep breath, trying to slow the sudden pounding of his heart. What was wrong with him? It was just a stupid message, one that obviously wasn't meant for him. Someone had entered the wrong number or something. There was no reason for him to feel so… so… *nervous.*

"You ready?"

Neal looked up, then nodded, grabbing his last donut and stuffing it in his mouth. "Yeah, I'm ready," he mumbled around the pastry. "Let's get out of here."

o o o

_New Rome, The Year of Our Lord the Great I Am, 4807 AE (After Eden)_

"Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Your kingdom come, Your will be done, on Spirit Earth as it is in Heaven. Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Your kingdom come, Your will be done, on Spirit Earth as it is in Heaven. Our Father, who art in Heaven…"

Brother Peter Burke gritted his teeth, glaring up at the overhead speaker blasting the endless, crackling chant. Ten minutes at Inter-Realm Supermax and he was ready to stab his eardrums out. Peter may have been a man of the cloth in a literal sense, but he hadn't gotten his collar by bowing and praying. Peter was a senior clergyman at the Holy Bureau of Investigation, Priest Collar Unit, and he'd earned his collar the same way he'd earned his blessed blade: By being the meanest, toughest son of a bitch at the Seminary. And by God, Peter had lived up to his reputation.

Though he really didn't want to contemplate what losing one of his most prized catches was going to do for that reputation. If Neal Caffrey weren't already damned, Peter would damn the prick himself.

"I-If you'll come this way, Brother," the warden said in a shaky voice, rubbing his hands together and glancing around the dim hallway with frightened eyes, as if he thought Caffrey might leap out of the shadows and rip his throat out. As if a direct Spawn of Satan would ever lower himself to hiding in the shadows. Civilians were so deluded. The Great I Am really should start requiring all citizens to take Demonology 101.

Over the past decade, Peter had put away hundreds of criminal demons, and not your average joe 'scare 'em and tear 'em to pieces' types, either. The Priest Collar division didn't bother with the twisted creatures Satan cooked up in a pot to mess with the world. If it had seventy eyes and a dick on its elbow, let the nuns at Animal Services deal with it. The creatures that the Priest Collar handled were subtler than that, and it was their subtlety that made them so dangerous. Because *nothing* on Spirit Earth was as dangerous to humans as the Spawn, and no Spawn was as dangerous as Neal Caffrey.

Civilians forgot that Eve hadn't taken a chunk out of that pomegranate in fear. Oh, no. Satan had wooed her into suckling the forbidden fruit. Lucifer's beauty was his weapon, and his half-blood son definitely followed in his wake. A terrible beauty.

"How the hell did this happen?" Peter growled as they approached the now empty cell. It was a wreck, a big hole in the wall where Caffrey had ripped off the toilet and flung it against the opposite wall, shattering it to pieces. There were burn marks all over the floor from the excess heat generated by the ritual that had taken place, and the mattress was now a pile of ashes. "Why didn't the heat sensors go off? I told you to keep the heat sensors on twenty-four seven! Caffrey is known for his insane rituals!"

"He had a poltergeist standing by, Brother," the warden said, still playing nervously with his hands. Peter was starting to wonder if the man was actually scared of the missing demon, or if it was the wrath of Peter he was worried about. Brother Peter wasn't know for being the most level headed man when it came to putting up with fools. "A lemon icebox pie arrived for Caffrey a week ago. He said it was for his birthday tomorrow, so the Holy Guard put it in the freezer. We think the ghost was hiding inside the pie."

"Poltergeists," Peter muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. "The modern day file."

"All of the building's plumbing is out, actually," the warden continued, dabbing a handkerchief at his sweating temple. "When the ritual hit completion, the ghost blasted the whole place. It burst all the pipes, but it saved us from frying. I couldn't believe the power of it! It was like something of God!"

"Don't blaspheme," Peter said sharply. "It wasn't the work of God, it was the work of an idiot haphazardly ripping a whole in the universe, leaping through it like a madman, and popping out in Other Earth like the product of a poorly planned pregnancy." Peter knelt down to inspect the floor more closely. A long crack ran diagonally across the whole cell, about the width of his pinkie finger. "Where did this crack come from?" he questioned, glancing up at the warden.

"I, um, I'm not sure," the warden said, shuffling his feet in a way that kind of made Peter want to strangle him. "I'm assuming Caffrey's ritual made it?"

Peter resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Rituals don't physically manifest in the spirit realm. They only play out physically in Heaven or Hell, depending on whether the ritual is holy or unholy. Something else happened in this cell. Something much closer to home. Caffrey couldn't have done it—these wards protect the physical floors and walls from any kind of penetration." He stood up, brushing off the knees of his trousers. "You have the CCTV footage?"

The warden shook his head. "No… The poltergeist frosted over the lenses. We couldn't see anything."

"Any idea what might have induced this madness?" Peter asked, frowning deeply as he studied the cell. It seemed like he was missing something… "I mean, Caffrey spent almost four years with his wings nailed to a holy cross. That would ruffle any angel's feathers, but he only had a couple more months before his debt in Hell would be paid. The cross would have been removed, and he might have even been transferred to a prison where they don't spend all day driving you nuts with endless chanting, since he'd no longer need to be in a multidimensional cell."

The warden shrugged, shuffling his feet in a way that made it obvious he was ready to leave. "I don't know. Maybe he was tired of bearing the cross, so he ripped himself free."

"You really don't know much about fallen angels, do you?" Peter said dryly. "The cross would have burst into flames if he tried to tear it off, and his wings were nailed to the cross through the bone in over a dozen places. He would have had to rip his wings to shreds to escape. They're ruined forever. He'll never fly again. And for someone who has an eternity in Hell to look forward to, that's a long time to be incapable of doing the the thing you were made to do."

"Well, he went to Other Earth, right? Or that's what the Soothsayer said when she came to inspect the ritual. You don't need wings in Other Earth. People don't fly there, do they?"

"Other Earthlings don't have souls, either," Peter retorted. "Well, not physically, anyway. Not running through their veins. Just in their minds, like a psychic thing. Caffrey will have nothing to feed on there. He'll starve! Or spend eternity starving, anyway. I don't think the Spawn can literally starve to death. It takes a complex ritual to kill them, with at least three priests, the harnessed power of a hurricane, and a sacrificial narwhal. Or maybe it was a walrus. Something that swims and has pointy things sprouting from it. Caffrey is too smart for this, ruining his wings a few months before freedom to cast one of the most dangerous rituals ever concocted. Reality jumping is just another term for playing God, and nothing good comes from mortals trying to play God. Caffrey knows that. Something must have caused him to do this!"

Peter sighed, running a hand through his hair as he began to pace the cell. "Did anything change? Anything at all? It doesn't matter how small it is, if you can remember *anything*…"

"Well," the warden said slowly, wrinkles appearing on his brow. "There was one thing. About a month ago, the Kate Monster stopped coming."

Peter came to a sudden halt, raising an eyebrow at the warden. "The what?"

"The Kate Monster," he said, rubbing at his hands again. "Well, that was what we called her, anyway. When she signs in, she just puts 'Kate.' At first glance, she seems likable enough, a pretty girl. But if you look into her eyes…" The warden shivered. "She's a monster. You can see it, clear as day. The pretty girl is a monster. But she came every month, like clockwork."

"A monster?" Peter said, little wrinkles appearing around his mouth. "What kind of monster?"

"I told you, I don't know!" the warden said. "Just… the Kate Monster. We call her the Kate Monster. Because she's just so… just so… I don't know… *sad*, I guess? So sad it's, well, it's frightening."

Peter's eyebrows shot up, the pieces clicking into place, and he let out a chuckle. "Her name isn't Kate, warden. KATE is what she *is.* She's a Keeper of Angels' Tormented Eternity. A KATE. She isn't a monster, she's a slave to monsters. Keepers are forced to take on a fallen angel's pain. Like an anesthetic, only while the demon feels better, the KATE hurts. That's why become afraid when you look into her eyes. The pain you see is unimaginable, and it terrifies you. She's probably been agony for thousands of years. They say that Satan stole his Keepers from Eden itself. It's why they can flit back and forth between realities. Because the reality they come from, the realm of Eden, no longer exists, they aren't tied to any one particular world. Just like the Spawn can move easily between Spirit Earth and Hell and the Angels Unaware can move between Heaven and Other Earth, because each of them belong to both realms, the Keepers can move through all the dimensions."

"Oh dear Father who art in Heaven," the warden whimpered, his face going pale, "You're saying the Kate Monster is a purgator? I've had a purgator in my prison?"

"Relax," Peter said. "She can't hurt you."

"They say that a single touch from those creatures can erase you from time itself!"

"Only God can erase you from time itself," Peter said sharply. "Yes, the Keepers are trapped in a purgatory state, but there is no reason to fear them. A multidimensional being is something to be pitted, whether they are Keepers or the angels cast out of all realms when they refused to take sides in the war before the Great Fall. A wanderer with no home. The question is, why the hell is a KATE visiting Caffrey? The fallen ones live in eternal agony because they once knew the glory of Heaven and then had it ripped from them. That's why they need Keepers. The Spawn are born here on Spirit Earth—they don't know that pain. Keepers are slaves to true demons, not their half-blood mistakes. Why would a KATE come to see Caffrey?"

"I don't know," the warden said shakily. "I-I'm really not sure. Oh my God, a purgator in my prison…" The warden dropped suddenly to his knees, yanking a crucifix out of his pocket. "Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy—"

"Oh for the love of my Christ!" Peter snapped, reaching down and hauling the man up by the tie. "I don't have time for this. There is a convicted demon running around on Other Earth somewhere, probably scaring the shit out of thousands of unbelievers. You know they don't even have magic there? They can't even turn water into wine! I need to find out what it was that scared Caffrey enough to run to a place like that. Your so-called 'Kate Monster' should have been hanging out with the big guys downstairs, but instead she was here, paling it up with a Spawn on Spirit Earth. I want to know why. Do you have video from the last time she visited?"

The warden coughed, rubbing tenderly at his throat as Peter released him. "Um, yes, I suppose we do," he said, a little hoarsely.

"Good," Peter said brusquely. "Go and get it. I want to look around here a little more."

The warden nodded vigorously as he backed out of the cell, arms raised like he was afraid Peter might suddenly attack. Yeah, definitely not the missing demon that one was worried about.

Peter let out a sigh as he stepped back over to the ritual sight, dropping down onto his knees again. He reached out, running a finger along the grooves carved into the rock.

It wasn't a particularly complex ritual, just a scratched image of the Spawn's crest with the symbol of Other Earth embedded into the tail. There was no sign of any sacrifice, but Caffrey *had* to have sacrificed something. You didn't get to yank holes in the fabric of the universe without some kind of payment, and this ritual was a pricey one. Caffrey should have needed at least a couple of goats, maybe even a sacred cow. But there was no sign of any sacrifice at all, not a single drop of blood to give Peter a hint about the more complex details of the ritual. All he could see was the basic setup and, depending on sacrifices made and chants spoken, this ritual could have landed him on Other Earth a half a dozen different ways. The demon might not survive all of them, but they would get him there. This was just the bare bones, though, no way to tell how Caffrey had physically travelled.

Maybe Caffrey had sacrificed the poltergeist? Nobody had seen it around, or even felt a cool breeze. In fact, with the heat from the ritual still bubbling inside, this prison was like a furnace. Except the ghost had iced the whole place at the very end, meaning it was still alive when the ritual ended. Or as alive as a poltergeist ever was, anyway.

There had to be something, though, some sort of residue that would at least give Peter some idea of what general area the demon had landed in, or what shape he had taken. Peter lowered his face until he was just a few inches from the etching. Nothing. Just smooth cement. Except… was that a shimmer?

Peter's brow furrowed as he tilted his head different ways. Yeah, that was definitely a shimmer, something shining from within, because there wasn't really any light in here to reflect. But what was it? Angel's blood? No, that shone from within, but it was the color of rubies. This was silver, like…like… like a soul.

Peter's breath caught and he brought his face even closer, being careful not to actually touch the substance. If it was still shining, then some part of the ritual might still be active. It really did look like a soul, but surely it couldn't be. Where would Caffrey get a soul? None of the guards' souls had gone missing—they did a check every morning. Poltergeists' souls couldn't be drained, them being non-corporeal and all. But the more Peter looked at it, the more he was sure. This was soul juice. Pure, unfiltered soul juice.

"I'm sorry," a soft voice said from behind him, and Peter froze as he felt the cold touch of a blade pressing against the back of his neck. Fingers gently brushed his head. "I'm sorry, but she is coming."

Peter let out a cry as he was suddenly shoved forward, face planting right in the shimmery liquid. An instant later the yell turned to an all out scream as a blinding light began to shine and some unseen force threw him into a mad free fall, spinning, spinning, spinning into the light.

Oh, this was not good. This was not good at all.

Good bye, spirit realm, hello Other Earth.


End file.
